heir courage to arms
and prepare for battle. And now his Trojans and his camp are in his
sight as he stands high astern, when next he lifts the [262-296]blazing
shield on his left arm. The Dardanians on the walls raise a shout to the
sky. Hope comes to kindle wrath; they hurl their missiles strongly; even
as under black clouds cranes from the Strymon utter their signal notes
and sail clamouring across the sky, and noisily stream down the gale.
But this seemed marvellous to the Rutulian king and the captains of
Ausonia, till looking back they see the ships steering for the beach,
and all the sea as a single fleet sailing in. His helmet-spike blazes,
flame pours from the cresting plumes, and the golden shield-boss spouts
floods of fire; even as when in transparent night comets glow blood-red
and drear, or the splendour of Sirius, that brings drought and
sicknesses on wretched men, rises and saddens the sky with malignant
beams.

Yet gallant Turnus in unfailing confidence will prevent them on the
shore and repel their approach to land. 'What your prayers have sought
is given, the sweep of the sword-arm. The god of battles is in the hands
of men. Now remember each his wife and home: now recall the high deeds
of our fathers' honour. Let us challenge meeting at the water's edge,
while they waver and their feet yet slip as they disembark. Fortune aids
daring. . . .' So speaks he, and counsels inly whom he shall lead to
meet them, whom leave in charge of the leaguered walls.

Meanwhile Aeneas lands his allies by gangways from the high ships. Many
watch the retreat and slack of the sea, and leap boldly into the shoal
water; others slide down the oars. Tarchon, marking the shore where the
shallows do not seethe and plash with broken water, but the sea glides
up and spreads its tide unbroken, suddenly turns his bows to land and
implores his comrades: 'Now, O chosen crew, bend strongly to your oars;
lift your ships, make them go; let the prows cleave this hostile land
and the keel plough [297-330]herself a furrow. I will let my vessel
break up on such harbourage if once she takes the land.' When Tarchon
had spoken in such wise, his comrades rise on their oar-blades and carry
their ships in foam towards the Latin fields, till the prows are fast on
dry land and all the keels are aground unhurt. But not thy galley,
Tarchon; for she dashes on a shoal, and swings long swaying on the cruel
bank, pitching and slapping the flood, then bre